I’m sick of writing about the snow. Crisp whites, frozen tires and bloodless hands. A deserts life right now.
The wide open empty. The lizards the sand the cracks in the mud and the rainless corpse of earth. The slim yet indignant cacti and the humble sun just burning hard pumping rays into everything but shadow. The quiet, the creaky wind and maybe some sweat. The smell of nothing but the sweet stench of dust. A campsite. A fire, a relentless night. Naked stars, cloudless and bright. A suns slumber.
Hills, no, mountains of clay red, beige and smooth. Eager roots, harsh realities, and a humble sense of survival. The heat. Strong, earnest and consistent, it echoes the deserts name. Eyes closed, legs tired, water lost. The dry smack of your lips, a week old beard and an empty cup. I’d have a backpack soaked in salt. My boots would be brown and my pants would be dirty. My shirt would stink and I would drip. Room for a smile nonetheless.
With my fair skin, I’d get tatted red. Aloe like ice. I’d walk home.